Robert Lyndon - Hawk Quest

His gaze lifted to another line of defence on the ridge a couple of miles behind the castle. In a lifetime of campaigning, he’d seen nothing like it — a wall punctuated by watchtowers marching straight across the landscape with no regard for natural obstacles. That must be the barrier the Romans had built to protect their northernmost frontier from the barbarians. And yes, against the darkness of oncoming night, the wintry hills beyond did have an end-of-the-world look.

A blur of smoke hung over the castle. He fancied he could see figures inching towards it from the surrounding fields. Not far downriver was a sizeable village, but the houses had a caved-in look and the outlying farmsteads were smudges of ash. Since crossing the Humber five days ago, the travellers hadn’t passed a single occupied village. The harrying of the north, the dereliction was called — Norman revenge for an English and Danish uprising at York two winters ago. In the last of the light the Frank worked out that the way to the castle led through a wood.

The Sicilian flopped down beside him. ‘Have you found it?’

The Frank pointed.

The Sicilian peered into the gloom. The spark of excitement faded and his face crumpled in disappointment. ‘It’s just a wooden tower.’

‘What did you expect — a marble palace with gilded spires?’ The Frank pushed himself upright. ‘On your feet. It will be dark soon and there’ll be no stars tonight.’

The Sicilian stayed on the ground. ‘I don’t think we should go down there.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s too dangerous. We can hand over the documents to the bishop in Durham.’

The Frank’s jaw tightened. ‘I’ve brought you safe across Europe, yet now, within sight of our destination, after all the hardships I’ve endured, you want us to turn back ?’

The Sicilian twisted his knuckles. ‘I never expected our journey to take so long. The Normans are practical in matters of succession. Our news may no longer be welcome.’

‘Welcome or not, it will snow tonight. Durham’s a day’s walk behind us. The castle’s our only shelter.’

All at once the carrion birds fell quiet. They rose in a flurry, circled once, then spiralled down towards the trees. When the ragged shapes had gone, there was a dragging silence.

‘Here,’ the Frank said, thrusting a hunk of bread at the Sicilian.

The youth stared at it. ‘I thought all our food had gone.’

‘A soldier always keeps a reserve. Go on. Take it.’

‘But what about you?’

‘I’ve already eaten my share.’

The Sicilian crammed the bread into his mouth. The Frank walked away so that he wouldn’t have to endure the sounds of someone else eating. When he turned back, the youth was sobbing.

‘What’s the matter now?’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I’ve been nothing but a burden and a trial.’

‘Get on the mule,’ the Frank ordered, cutting off the Sicilian’s protests. ‘It’s not your comfort I’m worried about. I don’t want to spend another night with a rock for a pillow.’

By the time they reached the wood, the trees had become invisible. The Frank took hold of the mule’s tail and let it find its own way. He stumbled over roots, his feet splintering icy puddles. The snow that had been threatening all day began to fall, thin as dust at first. His face and hands grew numb.

He, too, loathed this country — the foul weather, the surly resignation of its natives, the edgy swagger of their conquerors. He wrapped his cape around his head and retreated into a sleepwalking dream. He was walking through orchards, a vineyard, a herb garden drowsy with bees. He entered a villa, crossed a cool tiled floor into a chamber where vine clippings glowed in the hearth. His wife rose smiling from her needlework. His children plunged towards him, screaming with delight at his miraculous return.

Their destinies had crossed last autumn on St Bernard’s way across the Alps. The Frank, travelling under the name of Vallon, was on foot, having sold his horse and armour in Lyon. Soon after starting his descent into Italy, he passed a party of pilgrims and merchants glancing anxiously back at storm clouds massing in the south. A shaft of sunlight picked out a herdsman’s summer settlement by a gorge far down the valley. It would be as far as he’d get that night.

He’d covered less than half the distance when the clouds snuffed out the sun. The temperature plummeted. A wind that started as a faraway sigh struck him with a blast of hail. Chin nuzzled into his chest, he struggled against the storm. The hail turned to snow, day turned to night. He lost the path, tripped over rocks, floundered through drifts.

He reached flatter ground and caught a whiff of smoke. He must be downwind of the settlement, the gorge to his left. He continued more slowly, probing with his sword until a mass denser than darkness blocked his way. A hut half-drifted over. He groped round the walls and found the door on the lee side. He kicked it open and stumbled into a chamber choked with smoke.

A figure leaped up on the far side of a fire. ‘Please, don’t harm us!’

Vallon made out a gangling youth with bolting eyes. In the gloom behind him another figure stirred in restless sleep. ‘Calm yourself,’ Vallon growled, sheathing his sword. He wedged the door shut, beat snow from his clothes and crouched by the flames.

‘I crave your pardon,’ the young man stammered. ‘My nerves are stretched. This storm …’

The figure in the corner muttered in a language Vallon didn’t understand. The youth hurried back to him.

Vallon fed the fire with chips of dung and massaged the feeling back into his hands. He retired to the wall and gnawed a heel of bread. Draughts flustered a lamp in a niche above the pair in the corner. The man lying down wasn’t sleeping. His chest wheezed like leaking bellows.

Vallon swigged some wine and winced. ‘Your companion’s sick.’

The young man’s eyes were moist highlights. ‘My master’s dying.’

Vallon stopped chewing. ‘It’s not the plague, is it?’

‘No, sir. I suspect a cancer of the chest. My master’s been ailing ever since we left Rome. This morning he was too weak to seat his mule. Our party had to leave us behind. My master insisted we go on, but then the storm caught us and our groom ran away.’

Vallon spat out the sour wine and wandered over. No doubt of it, the old man would be rid of his cares before dawn. But what a life was written on that face — skin stretched sheer over flared cheekbones, the nose of a fastidious eagle, one dark, hooded eye, the other a puckered scar. And his garments glossed an exotic tale — silk robe fastened with ivory toggles, pantaloons tucked into kidskin boots, a cape of sable that must have cost more than the ring winking on his bony hand.

The dark eye found him. Thin wide lips parted. ‘You’ve come.’

Vallon’s neck prickled. The old man must imagine that the spectre of death had arrived to usher him through the last gate. ‘You’re mistaken. I’m just a traveller sheltering from the storm.’

The dying man absorbed this without contradiction. ‘A pilgrim walking to Jerusalem.’

‘I’m travelling to Constantinople to join the imperial guard. If I pass through Rome, I might light a candle at St Peter’s.’

‘A soldier of fortune,’ the old man said. ‘Good, good.’ He muttered something in Greek that made the youth glance sharply at Vallon. Struggling for breath, the old man groped beneath his cape, drew out a soft leather binder and pressed it into his attendant’s hand. The youth seemed reluctant to take it. The old man clawed at his arm and spoke with urgency. Again the youth glanced at Vallon before answering. Whatever response he made — some vow or pledge — it seemed to satisfy the dying man. His hand fell away. His eye closed.